


27 Club

by Swifty_Fox, weicheidarling



Series: things unsaid [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, NSFW, Neil is in his feelings, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rapper! Andrew is back :'D, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 16:39:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swifty_Fox/pseuds/Swifty_Fox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/weicheidarling/pseuds/weicheidarling
Summary: Andrew's new music video to commemorate making it to 27 is a punishment for him and Neil both.





	27 Club

**Author's Note:**

> Rachel and I have been playing with this AU for ages now after talking about how NF was a good face-cast for Andrew so like. Here's some more of it. 
> 
> You might have seen it, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882836/chapters/13558252) or [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882836/chapters/13651404). 
> 
> (Thank u Rachel for betaing.)
> 
> -Sage

This room is a nightmare. Drab walls with water-stained corners. Dime sized holes burned in the shag carpet. The curtains hang crookedly from grimy windows. A cross on the peeling wallpaper above the bed and oh, the bed. 

“It was on the opposite wall,” Andrew mutters.

“Hm?” 

Neil eyes the director from the corner of his vision, still unable to turn away from this. This. “Hell hole” is the word that comes to mind. He can’t make his eyes settle on the bed.

“Move the bed to the opposite wall. And the curtains were green, not blue.” Andrew’s eyes are lost in his hair as he retreats from the room. Neil follows silently, backing away like you might from a lion’s den. Back first. 

It’s only a set. Outside, there are people bustling around energetically. Someone shouts across the warehouse they work from, nearly running into Andrew but dodging at the last second. Andrew doesn’t even seem to notice, jaw working while he stares off into space, not really walking anywhere in particular. Just away. 

Neil had been dreading this for weeks. Since Andrew told him. Since he’d really grasped what it meant. If Andrew didn’t want to proceed, he made no indication of it to anyone who might have a say. Not even to Neil. But there is no talking to Andrew when he’d made a decision, so Neil can only watch him suffer in silence. 

Andrew picks at his cuticles until they bleed while they have their make-up done. Luckily bandaids fit right in with their costumes. The only sign of life left in Andrew is the scoff he gives at Neil in his blond wig. 

“You look sick to your stomach,” Andrew notes, reaching up to smooth the tired lines beneath Neil’s eye. “Stage fright?” 

Neil shakes his head, resisting the urge to cup Andrew’s hand. “Are you ok?”

Andrew pulls away, scowling. No answer. He feels cold to look at. “That empathy of yours is annoying.”

They’re lead back to the set bookended by Andrew’s agent and the director who chittered away incessantly about blocking and the time tables and if the B-Roll had wrapped. Neil holds his breath as they walk through the threshold. Holds his breath until they’re settled on the twin mattress now rightfully placed on the opposite wall like Andrew had commanded, backs to each other. It felt gross being here, thinking about what sat between them in the crumpled sheets. What Neil had been aggressively ignoring upon their first entry.

It smells thickly of corn syrup between them. Neil glances over his shoulder at the mess of fake blood and crumpled sheets and Andrew’s rigid back just past it. This feels wrong. Neil thinks, as he slowly turns back around, that is probably by Andrew’s design. 

There’s some more shouting among the crew before the cameras are brought in, and Neil is forced to remember that he’s here to work.

— 

Even though his face can’t be seen in any of the footage, Neil still feels strange watching himself on film. The movements don’t seem like his, and Neil hasn’t been blond in years. Of course, that is because he isn’t himself, isn’t playing himself. This is Andrew, if not just a tad taller and thinner. 

The not-Neil in the screen mimics Andrew’s movements like a mirror. A distorted, mangled version of Andrew. An external representation of Andrew’s burned and cut and bruised insides. When Andrew’s fingers inch across the bed and knots in the sheets, so do Neil’s. When he begins lip-syncing the lyrics to his song, rolling his head along his shoulders and working tense muscles, Neil moves the same way, a carefully choreographed maneuver. 

Real Andrew, the Andrew sitting beside Neil, crosses his arms and tucks his chin into his chest. He is ever critical of every music video he’s ever released, but this is different. Like he is staring his trauma in the maw and smelling his own blood on its lips. Neil wants to cup his hands over Andrew’s cheeks and pull his attention away from the corn syrup blood now pouring from the edges of the bed in buckets, bubbling up from the crime scene between them. He doesn’t want Andrew watching it any more than he wants to see it.

There’s an aluminum bat resting on the bed beside Andrew on his side of the bed. He caresses it absently, words working over agile lips. Fingers curl over the worn leather-wrapped handle. Behind him, wigged Neil’s hands quiver, blood drenching them, dripping thickly. They push to their feet in unison. 

Even though he’s expecting it, after a half dozen iterations of this video, Neil still jumps when the Andrew in the screen whirls on him, swinging the bat at the back of his head. Not his, Neil has to remind himself. In a quick cut of B-roll he’d been replaced with a dummy. Still, the back of “his” head pops like a melon and more dyed corn syrup splatters on the mildewed walls. 

Andrew’s voice now is shouting in an emotional crescendo, and rage colors over his vision as he sings and bashes in the remains of his clone. Neil wonders if it’s too much. Too dark. This isn’t Andrew acting. Isn’t M. It’s Andrew in raw technicolor, punishing himself. Punishing the Andrew who put all that blood on that bed.

But then again, that’s why people like M. Those rare glimpses of Andrew that bleed out. The humanity that he hides under a stony frown and black armbands. His music is a polished version of that, Neil supposes. Something pretty and aesthetic for people to relate to. There’s something voyeuristic about M’s fans buying his self-harm.

Andrew leans forward, elbows meeting his knees as the final shot shows a closeup of his face battered and bruised, eye blacked out with blood. And as it fades to black and the song grows quiet, the fading beat is replaced with audio of a tape flickering on followed by cool radio static crackling like embers. Andrew’s hand cups over his own mouth as he looks at his shoes. Quietly at first, but growing louder, Neil hears his own voice play over a black screen.

He sounds. Sleepy. Gentle. Neil remembers this. Pillowtalk he had crooned to Andrew in a hotel room on the road. He can still remember the way Andrew’s hair felt between his fingers and his flat palm had warmed Neil’s belly, thumb dragging across his navel. “We survived it. Even if we hadn’t wanted to. Even if it was impossible. We lived, made it out, moved on. And that’s something at least. Surviving it proves we aren’t weak.”

Beside Neil, Andrew sucks in a big breath, hand dragging down his face. Doesn’t — can’t, maybe — meet Neil’s eyes. Instead, he exits full-screen to stare at the analytics, the bold title above the view count. "27 Club." Already thirty thousand views in something like 10 minutes. _Crazy_ , Neil thinks. Andrew rolls his thumb over the joystick of his controller like he would scroll down and read the comments but seems to decide better on it. 

Neil still can’t quite wrap his brain around hearing his own voice at the end. His fucked out ramblings on the internet for all of M’s fans and any one else inevitably interested in hearing his new single. Neil wonders if he should feel violated that Andrew had been recording him without his knowledge. No, he decides. It isn’t that Andrew recorded him that set the hairs standing on the back of his neck. It’s others hearing it. Hearing him tell Andrew how he really felt about their — about his — trauma. 

Without looking away from the TV, Andrew says, “I won’t apologize.”

Neil scowls, knotting his hands together in his lap. He knows what this video means to Andrew. This is a milestone they hadn't prepared for. Neil's birthday is quick approaching, too, and he wonders if he'll be as much of a wreck then as Andrew has been these past few months. “I didn’t ask you to.” 

Andrew’s eyes pull from the screen. Burns holes into Neil, scorching him like sun reflecting off dry, desert sand. Neil tries not to let it get to him. Still, he feels a bead of sweat slide down his neck. It’s not the recording all that that’s bothering him, though. 

“I hate this one,” Neil murmurs. “It hurts too much.”

Andrew looks at the space between them, a dark and unreadable expression taking over. Neil knows, somehow, that he’s searching for a way to say he can’t relate to that feeling. That he doesn’t know how to feel hurt by it anymore. Neil knows all he feels now is muted shades of rage. It’s okay, Neil thinks. He’s accepted that about Andrew. Even if Andrew doesn’t know how to accept his empathy. 

Neil’s fingers dig into the edge of the couch, fisting the fabric until the skin on his knuckles burns a little. Then, achingly, he lowers himself on the floor. Ignores Andrew’s quizzical expression to crawl between his legs. 

“Andrew,” Neil murmurs.

Andrew’s response is only cupping Neil’s jaw. 

“I want to forget it.” Neil pulls himself up to kiss Andrew. He allows it, cradling his jaw. It’s more tender than Neil is used to. Feels sweet. Neil moans into the kiss. “Make me forget.” 

Gently, Neil moves his hands from their safe zone on the tops of Andrew’s thighs inward, to the buckle of his belt, inching back to search Andrew’s eyes for approval as he goes. “Can I today?” he whispers. 

Andrew’s eyes flicker between Neil’s for a moment, reading the air between them. Then, he leans back, lets his legs fall more open ever so slightly, hands resting on the couch. Neil doesn’t say thank you, but it’s implied with the gracious parting peck he gives Andrew’s jaw before sitting back on his heels and making quick work of Andrew’s belt. 

He takes his time running his thumbs up the inner line of Andrew’s thigh, all the way to the crook of his groin. Bows his head and noses Andrew’s crotch. Andrew’s cock is already growing stiff, so Neil takes a moment to unbutton his jeans and pull them open to leave just enough room for it. Distantly, he can hear Andrew’s breath growing heavy and labored. 

Palming Andrew’s half chub through his briefs, Neil blindly reaches into the side table beside them, scrounging around for a half-empty bottle of lube they sometimes kept there. It takes dropping the remote, a spare gaming controller, and a few articles of junk mail onto the floor before he finds it, but his fingers finally graze it, shoved to the back, grossly still a bit sticky from its last use. He tries not to think about that too much, setting it down beside his knees before glancing up at Andrew again.

“Can you lift up for me?” Neil asks, curling fingers over Andrew’s jeans and underwear both. 

Andrew obeys wordlessly, raising his rear just enough that Neil can pull his pants down to his ankles. Neil hums in approval, unable to take his eyes off Andrew’s heavy cock resting on his hip, still not quite rigid but engorged enough to look appetizing. Neil can’t resist burying his nose in deep, sliding the flat length of his tongue along Andrew’s balls, and his chest swells at how Andrew quivers in response. The sweet musk takes over everything, filling Neil’s head, making him dizzy with lust. 

Andrew’s fingers twitch from Neil’s periphery, and he glances up through his bangs with half-lidded eyes. Andrew’s bottom lip is already bitten red and slick with spit, eyes blown out and hungry. Neil doesn’t smile but he kind of wants to. Instead, he reaches down with one hand to pop the cap on the lube while the other holds up Andrew’s cock and fondles his foreskin. He can’t resist taking a moment to let his tongue invade the velvety skin, playing with it until he’s decided he’s ready to pull back, squeeze a dollop of strawberry flavored lube into his palm.

He rubs it into his hand a bit to warm it while he closes the bottle again and sets it aside before delicately wrapping around Andrew’s cock again and. Slowly, so that it’ll drive Andrew crazy, coating him with the lube, from the head all the way to the base, taking special attention to roll his wrist in that way he knows Andrew likes when he makes his way back up to the head again. 

Andrew’s head falls back with a dull thud and his Adam’s apple bobs, but he can’t seem to handle not being able to watch Neil work so he quickly lifts his head again, peeling his eyes open blearily. He’s quiet, but Neil can tell he’s enjoying himself. If he wasn’t, he would have stopped Neil by now. 

Neil hates the saccharine sticky stench of the lube lingering in his nose. Knows he’ll hate it more when it’s deep in his mouth and mixed with the salty taste of Andrew’s pre-cum. He’s never told Andrew but, well, at least it’s better than the sour silicon alternative. A few more tugs, and Neil laves his tongue along the underside of the head, hopes he’s not making a face when the taste settles in the back of his throat. Hopes Andrew is too busy shuddering and holding back his moans to notice.

Of course, it’s unlikely. His eyes penetrate every inch of Neil. Lethargically, he reaches out to tangle his fingers in Neil’s bangs as Neil wraps his lips around his cock, and their eyes meet. Neil’s back arches, eyes rolling closed just as quickly. He can’t help it. Andrew watching him does something to his poise. Destroys it, really. Neil can feel a blush flowering across his cheeks, can feel a whine building in the back of his throat.

He moves carefully to start. Reaches up to brush his loose hair behind his ear, dips his head low and tries to find a comfortable position for his jaw to maintain a good pace. There really isn’t one. He has to keep it just a little too wide to fit Andrew’s girth comfortably in his mouth without scraping him with teeth. The best he can do is alternate between bobbing his head and suckling at the head while he makes use of his spit mixing with the lube to jerk Andrew off with both hands. 

Neil draws his tongue along the slit, and Andrew’s whole body shifts, feet skidding ineffectually on the rug as he spreads his legs wider still. Both hands are in Neil’s hair in just a few more moments, gently guiding him back down on his cock, and Neil obeys without complaint. The head bumps against the back of his mouth. It’s still too early to take him any deeper, but Neil exhales every inch of air out of his lungs, so his throat is completely relaxed, and lets just a bit slip down. Above him, Neil hears Andrew gasp, feels his heels dig into the carpet.

He’d never quite been able to take all of Andrew. He’s too big, too girthy, but through trial and error, Neil had taught himself to do this at least. It helps that Andrew only accepts Neil sucking him off if he goes slow, the way you have to ease a feral animal into petting it. Going slow helps. Neil pulls off, runs his mouth along the underside of Andrew’s cock. Ignores spit and lube smearing along his cheek and sticking to his hair and dips down again, another slow exhale, pushing past his gag reflex to take Andrew a little deeper this time. It’s easier the second time. 

Vaguely, Neil hears Andrew curse under his breath somewhere above, but he’s too distracted by his fist tugging a little too roughly at his fringe. He reaches a slimy hand down to unbutton his jean shorts, not just to alleviate some of the tension building, but to release some of the pressure of denim cutting into the underside of his gut. He can’t help how his hips want to turn into the floor, want to find something to grind into. The best he can do is rut somewhat awkwardly into the floor, and it’s a painful feeling but. 

But. 

He pulls off Andrew’s dick with a wet pop, a string of spittle linking his lips to the head for a brief second before it breaks. He pants, wiping his nose. He’s not sure when it had grown a little runny. Probably the same time his eyes began to water but had been too stubbornly squeezed shut for him to notice. He sniffles, wiping his hands on the carpet absently and takes a minute to shimmy out of his shorts. Hopes Andrew doesn’t mind. If he does, he says nothing, choosing instead to lean forward and catch Neil in a hungry kiss as he’s settling back on his now increasingly achy knees. 

Neil moans, trying to blindly find Andrew’s dick again until Andrew takes his hand and guides him back to it with a ravenous snarl into his mouth. He even lets Neil put a hand on his chest and press him back to the couch so he can dip his head back down. It’s ballsy, and Neil kind of wonders if it will be okay, an itch of fear pricking for just a moment until Andrew falls back with a slump, and his hands return to Neil’s hair. Only then does Neil know he’s forgiven and lets his shoulders fall. 

He all but swallows Andrew whole after that and swells when he hears Andrew above him, breathless, “Like. Fuck, like that, pretty thing.”

Neil glances up, working his tongue around Andrew’s cock just to see Andrew’s lip curl up in a silent growl, showing teeth and gums. He’s damp with sweat, and Neil isn’t sure what he’d done to it, but his hair sticks to his forehead and exploding out in a million other directions so he looks like a madman. Only Andrew could make it look good, Neil thinks absently, sinking down on his cock again with a hum. Adds pressure with his tongue as he swallows a few more inches and moans.

He wants Andrew to fuck him. Wants to feel the satisfaction of being properly filled with Andrew’s cock. Neil can’t help rolling his hips into the floor again and whining, wet and needy. 

“‘Ndrew,” he pants, pulling off to mouth at the base sloppily. He doesn’t mean to, but his eyelid and brow are smeared with pre-cum and a few other fluids Neil can’t identify at this point. He tastes salt and the leftover faux strawberry flavoring and maybe snot at this point, he isn’t sure. Somehow, he always winds up a mess when they do this. 

“What do you want, baby?” Andrew pants, thumb coming down to wipe Neil’s eye so he can open it.

Neil’s head drops onto Andrew’s thigh, sweat-slicked forehead sticking on Andrew’s fiery hot flesh. He feels lethargic and sluggish, possibly from lack of oxygen to his brain. Still, the itch is a persistent weight in the base of his gut. He purses his lips, lazily jerks Andrew’s heavy cock. Turns a bit so he can find Andrew’s face in the corner of his eye. 

“Wanna ride you. Want. Want you to fuck me, ‘Drew. Yeah? Can I ride you? Can’t I?” As he rambles, Neil nuzzles into Andrew’s crotch again, laying sweet kisses on the base of Andrew’s cock. He wants it, so bad. Wants it now. 

Andrew seemed to deliberate it. Neil knows Andrew doesn’t like him on top. It makes him feel trapped, small, pinned down. Neil knows he needs to be prepared to be told no, to be manhandled over the coffee table and fucked into the glass so Andrew can have the control. It’s not the worst idea, if not for how the edge of the table always cuts into his hip bones, how the marks stay for hours afterward, pink and aching to the touch. 

While Neil is deep in his fantasy, Andrew’s hands loop under Neil’s arms, lifting him easily like one might a child. Neil barely has time to get his feet underneath him before Andrew’s hands slide down his torso, over his hips, taking his briefs with him. He lays a few kisses on Neil’s stomach before leaning back again, focus now on kicking his boots off and pants with them. 

He’s feeling generous today, Neil thinks, bending down to grab the lube and straightening out just in time for Andrew to pull him closer by the backs of his knees, guiding Neil so he straddles his waist. 

Like this their minute height difference is exaggerated, with Neil having to bend over to meet Andrew’s mouth for a hungry kiss just moments before Andrew pulls his shirt over his head. Naked like this, with Andrew’s hands all over him, sliding over every scar, every burn, every bruise, Neil feels like this is all he needs. Only Andrew can make him feel like this. Small, protected, brainless. His head falls back on his shoulders as Andrew mouths his nipple, teeth settling around the sensitive flesh, then his tongue lapping against it in apology. 

“‘Drew.” Neil draws out the name, turning it into a whine, into a desperate plea. It’s never been so hard not to say _please_. 

Andrew knows, though. He doesn’t need to say it. Neil hears the slap of the lube bottle cap somewhere, feels Andrew lifting Neil’s ass just off his lap enough to slip his hand down. The flat pad of his first fingers drag along Neil’s asshole and Neil squeaks at how frightfully cold they are, slick with lube. He finds himself fisting the back of the couch on either side of Andrew’s head, forearms resting on his shoulders, chin stabbing painfully into his clavicle as Andrew pushes his middle finger inside him.

“You’re so tight, baby,” Andrew chides, leaning in to kiss all the tension out of Neil, curling his finger, searching for Neil’s sweet spot. “I’m not going to fit at this rate.”

Neil hates the sneer he feels on Andrew’s lips against his as he sobs, “No-o-oo.” 

Andrew’s finger pulses in and out, demanding Neil get used to him, get ready. Andrew’s finger is thick and the stretch hurts, but at least he’s wet with sweat and lube and the glide is effortless. Meanwhile, he uses his free hand to lead Neil’s attention down, wrapping his fingers for him around their cocks, holding them flush together. 

Neil obeys wordlessly, tightening his fist around both as best he can, paying special attention to run his thumb across Andrew’s slit, and working his hips in small, barely there thrusts that slide their frenula together, making Andrew shudder deliciously. 

He presses forward, bending Neil back just enough that he needs Andrew’s massive flat hand spread across the small of his back to keep his balance, and seals his lips around Neil’s neck, just above his shoulder.

“Ah, shit,” Neil gasps, toes curling. 

“Neil,” Andrew hisses somewhere all around him. Neil isn’t sure where any more, he’s so encompassed by every inch of Andrew, oh god. “Don’t cum until I say, pretty thing.” 

Neil whimpers helplessly, as Andrew chooses then to add another finger, perhaps to torture him, and shoves them deep with no reprieve. He knows that just the thought of Andrew holding back his pleasure makes it that much more intense, and abuses that as often as possible. Damn him. “An’rew, noo. F-fuck.”

“Don’t argue.” Andrew’s fingers twist and claw inside until he finds the spongy core of Neil’s pleasure, and Neil melts forward with a moan, collapsing into his chest, face mashed into the couch above him. Andrew hums, satisfied with that, laying kiss after delicate kiss on Neil’s shoulder, but not for a second relenting. He knows if Neil really wants him to stop, he knows exactly what word would halt him in his tracks. 

Neil struggles to move his hands, crushed between their torsos, and settles for just rutting against Andrew desperately, burying his gasping moans into Andrew’s wild hair. He wants Andrew inside him already terribly but knows rushing things will make him regret it later. Still, it kills him to let Andrew abuse his insides, making room for his cock as he goes, soon pushing a third finger inside.

He pushes Neil back just enough that he access to his chest again, groping one breast while he latches onto the other, flicking his tongue expertly against Neil’s nipple. The moan Neil releases to bear the attention is wet and dirty. Makes Andrew’s cock spasm in his hand. Makes Neil want to jerk him harder, want to bounce on his cock until Andrew leaves the permanent shape of himself inside Neil.

“Fuck me, Andrew,” Neil wails. “C’mon, I’m ready. I’m ready so. So.” He clamps down, bites his lip hard to hold in his pleas. 

Andrew peeks at him through his lashes, hazel eyes blown out and almost glowing at the edges, perhaps determined to leave a hickey somewhere on Neil’s chest. His hand slides up under Neil’s arm, cupping the back of his neck at the nape and holding him close. His breath makes Neil’s whole body quake as his blows across his nipple. “Want me inside you that bad, baby?” 

Neil nods morosely, a strange, little part of him coming out. “Want you so bad,” he whines, tugging on their dicks in a demanding, bratty sort of way. 

Andrew seems to mull it over, which only tortures Neil more. Like there’s an option where he just changes his mind and tells Neil to get off of him, that he can finish on his own. Neil knows that _is_ an option, if Andrew revoked his participation, his consent. But it hurt his heart too much to think about, so he didn’t. Tried not to. 

Not to think about the dark things crawling in the back of Andrew’s mind that made it hard for him to let Neil climb into his lap and feel small. That he has to fight with just to let Neil touch him without growing violent. They’d come a long way from him pinning Neil’s arms behind his back on brick walls while he fucked him. 

Andrew leans in, nosing Neil’s jaw to demand his attention. “Lift up, then, pretty thing,” he says wolfishly.

Neil shrugs off whatever sad things he is remembering. He had wanted to forget, he reminds himself as he obeys Andrew’s command. It makes him shiver, Andrew’s hand remaining stable so Neil pushes up on his knees is left with a hollow, empty feeling, an itch deep inside him, hungry to be refilled. A frown tugs at his lips. He’s going to be sore; he can tell. He’s sore already. He should tell Andrew he needs more time, more prep, that he lied about being ready. But he just doesn’t want to wait any longer. 

It’s hard to know what to do with his hands while Andrew slathers more lube on his cock and peppers Neil’s tummy with more kisses. Neil settles for tugging at himself half-heartedly and wiping the sweat from his upper lip.

Finally, _finally_ , Andrew’s calloused palms cup Neil’s hips and guide them down onto him. Neil has to spread his thighs a bit wider, angle them out and arch his back to get the right angle but oh, soon the head of Andrew’s cock meets his entrance, with help from Neil’s hand to steady it, and Neil just. 

Sighs, sinking down. Past the nagging feeling like his insides are being split in half. Like he’s tearing all the way from his tailbone to his balls. He melts into Andrew and can’t stop himself from letting out a sweet, “Fffuck, mhh.”

Everywhere that Andrew touches him feels hot, loved, perfect, until Andrew’s hand pulls away to lift his black shirt up to his chin, trying to keep it out of the way of Neil’s cock bleeding precum all over his abs. He remains perfectly still otherwise, letting Neil adjust at his own pace, though Neil can feel his thighs tensing, throbbing beneath him as he tries to restrain himself. 

“Here,” Andrew pants, taking both of Neil’s hands, lacing their fingers. With his elbows pressed into the couch cushions, it gives Neil nice leverage to achingly swiveling his hips, reveling how Andrew sucks in a breath in time with the humming purr Neil expels. 

“You look like you’ll cum just from this,” Andrew notes, and his lips twitch at the corners almost like he might sneer up at Neil’s wanton expression. Neil purses his lips, nodding in double time with his own rolling hips. “Did you forget what I told you?”

A high voice in the back of Neil’s voice bubbled up in protest. Oh no. 

“You can’t. Not until you have my permission, Neil.” 

“B-ut,” Neil starts, lifting his hips a little more and dropping heavily onto Andrew’s lap. He can’t come up with a good argument, not while his head is so foggy and all the blood has left his brain. He’s only thinking with his hips now, all function going into fucking himself on Andrew’s cock, on balancing just right so the pressure on his sweet spot is so consistent, so thrilling. Fuck, it made his heart flutter, made him feel his pulse in his ears.

“Neil.” 

Neil’s hips stutter. He knows he’s in trouble. Andrew using his name is a warning that he should have caught the first time. His eyes are dangerous, hard to meet, until he released Neil’s hands, moved them up to the exposed part of his chest just beneath his crumpled shirt. The heavy _thu-thump_ of his heart is enough to momentarily distract Neil until Andrew fists his jaw with one newly free hand and his cock with the other. 

Neil’s breathless sob breaks the threatening silence. “Baby-yy.” 

Fingers dig into his jaw like talons, pulling Neil down to silence him with a kiss. The pressure Andrew adds to his cock is unbearable, but Neil can’t argue any more than that, not with Andrew clamping down on him, like a snake with a mouse.

“Not until I say,” Andrew commands. It leaves no room left for debate. “Yes?”

Neil nods once Andrew has let go of his face and dick. He isn’t sure why he wants to cry. Maybe just to release the pressure. But he let’s his eyes fall closed and crumples into Andrew’s chest without warning. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Neil chokes out, trying to find the strength to push himself back up, but Andrew’s arms lock around his waist, trapping him there. 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Andrew announces, turning his face into Neil’s neck. 

Had all that control Neil thought he’d had been in his head? Even with all of Neil’s weight on him, Andrew holds all the power even now. Still, it’s hard to be upset when his dick is settled in the hot, damp confines between their stomachs. Neil resists the urge to rut down into Andrew’s lap, afraid of his wrath. 

Neither of them are prepared for the moan Neil lets out as Andrew draws his hips down into the couch. He’s still so tight, and had been babying himself by going at his own pace, with minute movements. Andrew shows no mercy, fucking up into Neil, latching onto Neil’s shoulder with his teeth. The head of his cock pushes past Neil’s sweet spot and Neil squirms, nails digging into Andrew’s chest. 

There’s a heavy, calming pressure from Andrew’s hand on Neil’s nape to still him before he thrusts again, pulling back just enough so he can look Neil in the eyes while he fucks him. Andrew’s stomach tensing beneath Neil, his nose sliding along his cheek, fingers digging in to find purchase on sweat-slick skin, Neil feels it all vividly and it makes the tears he’d been fighting finally break, dripping onto Andrew’s cheeks. He doesn’t wipe them away, choosing instead to kiss Neil viciously, with teeth.

“‘Drew,” Neil cries around his mouth, “I wanna cum.” 

Andrew licks away a droplet that had fallen close to his upper lip. “No.”

Neil groans in frustration. He hates when Andrew does it, but he finds himself reaching down to clamp down on his dick. Tries to put all his focus into Andrew’s lips on his, on the weight of a heavy hand on his nape grounding him, on anything but Andrew’s hauntingly delicious thrusts reshaping his insides. And even when it felt impossible, he just tightens his grip, flexed every muscle in his gut to hold in the impending wave of his orgasm. 

“Mh, your cocks too good, baby,” Neil whimpered. “What do I do?” 

Andrew snarls, lips curling up in frustration, hips bucking just a little more wild. Neil’s only bit of revenge is talking sweet, and it works far too well. Almost to the point of being a problem. To the point where Neil is sure his dick will fall off with how he crushes it in his grasp. 

“Shut up,” Andrew hisses. His eyes fall closed, but he repeats it like a mantra under his breath. “Shut up, shut up.”

It’s harder to hold himself back when Neil knows it’s affecting Andrew, too. He wants to see him taken over with pleasure. Wants to be filled with his hot cum and have Andrew’s teeth sink into his chest until blood is drawn. 

Instead, Andrew’s hands move down to Neil’s hips, thumbs jabbing into his tummy, forcing Neil to sit up. His feet plant into the floor, and he slumps a little more into the couch to give himself the exact angle he needs to fuck up into Neil’s ass. One hand comes up to Neil’s chest, and his pale fingers contrast the flush that paints Neil’s skin. Thumb to pinky spans both nipples. Once he’s satisfied with the angle Neil is at, neck sloped but body rigid, Andrew’s hand returns to his hip. 

“Just there.”

Neil nods obediently, lets Andrew guide his hips up a little while trying to maintain his position. Then, he pulls Neil’s hips down as his own come up. The pleasure is immediate and unmistakable. Neil all but squeals. His thighs are throbbing, pulsing, and nothing happens when he tries to flex his lower half with Andrew’s motions. He’s held this position for too long, doesn’t have any strength left.

He’s too afraid to tell Andrew that if he keeps this up much more, he won’t be able to hold himself back anymore. Andrew probably wouldn’t care if he did. He couldn’t handle being outright refused his orgasm. He’s already crying, wiping the snot off with the back of his wrist.

“F-fuck, Andrew,” Neil bawls, unable to find the words he needs. All he knows his he doesn’t want to disappoint him, to disobey. Desperately, he comes up with, “Andrew, sorry, ‘m sorry.”

Andrew squints up at him, sits up a bit and fluidly yanking his shirt over his head as he goes. Neil doesn’t know how to stop anymore, so he just keeps fucking himself, blubbering senselessly now. Andrew moans and it kind of turns into a growl as he pulls Neil down to kiss him. “Almost there. You can do it, baby. Hold it in for me, yeah? Stop that.”

Neil cries. He doesn’t know what else to do. He feels Andrew pushing him over, changing their angle so Neil’s more between his thighs now than on top of them, pulling his legs over so his feet are on the couch. 

Somewhere, Andrew commands, “Hold onto me.”

What if he lets go and cums and Andrew is disappointed in him, though? What if Andrew has to punish him? Neil doesn’t have time to figure it out, as Andrew takes his wrists and wraps them around his neck. Somehow, he holds it together, even as Andrew loops his arms under his knees to hold his waist and starts moving again. 

Like this, Neil doesn’t even have to do anything. Just sobs and moans and digs his fingernails into Andrew’s nape as he’s fucked mercilessly. The lilting buzz of his orgasm is building impossibly like high tide and Neil purses his lips again, biting down on them hard to keep from screaming. Barely through his warped vision, like he’s sinking into the deep end of a pool, he can see Andrew above the water staring at him just under furrowed brows. 

Neil wonders briefly if he looks ugly like this.

It doesn’t really matter when Andrew leans in for another hungry kiss, lapping at his tears and spit and moans. The arches of Neil’s feet cramp terribly as his toes try to curl into themselves. His extremities feel cold while where their skin meets burns from sweat-stuck friction. It all hardly registers over the waves rising in the pit of Neil’s gut. He knows he won’t last much longer. 

“An’rew, ‘m cumming,” Neil slurs. “I’m sorry. Can- can’t hold it anymore. It’s gonna come out.”

“I’m close,” Andrew says, eyes falling closed. “Just a little more.” 

Andrew’s mercy is picking up his pace, all sense of rhythm gone as he fucks Neil desperately, filling the air with Neil’s cries and the slap of their skin meeting repeatedly. With his breath loud in Neil’s ears like he’s sprinting, chasing Neil’s pleasure, trying to find his own at the end of it. Neil thinks he might hear his own name in Andrew’s wheezing. 

When Andrew gets to this point, Neil wants nothing more than to make him cum. To relieve him however he can. It’s hard to think about, how Andrew’s face screws up, how angry he looks when he’s dizzy with pleasure. Neil hates what it means, pain and pleasure being so intermingled for Andrew. Then again, Andrew had taught him some version of this, because it’s all Andrew knows and Neil had known none of this before him. Did Andrew have the same thoughts toward how Neil sometimes cries when Andrew makes him feel good? 

Neil cups his face, running a thumb under Andrew’s eye. It forces him to look at Neil, just barely, through his pale lashes. He doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs. Andrew’s reassurance, his presence. Instead, he asks for the next best thing. “Tell m-me. Andrew.”

Andrew’s kiss tastes tragic. He looks at Neil’s lips. Or maybe the space between them. Neil isn’t sure. He’s looking for something, Neil thinks. Whatever it could be, Neil is sure Andrew wouldn’t tell him even if he asked. Finally, he grumbles around his swallowed moans, “I hate you.”

It’s all he needs. Relieved, Neil locks his ankles behind Andrew. _Thank you_ , he doesn’t say. _I love you, too_ , he doesn’t say. Just holds on, sobs, while Andrew fists his hair, gentle as he probably knows how to be. Nuzzles into Nei’s throat and rocks into him. 

Neil’s voice is like sandpaper in his throat, and his legs are all but jelly. He’s exhausted, fucked out, sad. He wants to cum, wants to stay like this forever. Can’t make up his mind. Can’t even really think straight. Andrew’s hips move at an off-kilter pace that makes it impossible to predict how he’ll hit inside him, and Neil is sure that if he weren’t already soaked with sweat, his lap would be pooling with pre-cum. His balls ache from holding it in this long but he thinks he might have finally just gone numb from it. He isn’t sure if he’ll even be disappointed if he doesn’t end up finishing. 

“Hurts,” Neil says. He hadn’t meant to but it came out anyway. 

Andrew doesn’t stop entirely, but his pace slows to a crawl and he pulls back to look at Neil, gauge his expression. 

Neil shakes his head in response to Andrew’s unasked question. “Not this,” he mewls. 

" _This._ ” Deliberately, Neil takes Andrew’s hand from his hair and moves it to his chest, holding it there, over his heart. 

Andrew’s eyes are that threatening color of the sky before a summer storm. Like a tornado that they’d driven through while crossing the country in a beat-up Ford Pinto what felt like a hundred years ago at the beginning of Andrew’s career. Torrid and a sickly mix of yellow and rust that brings out the green flecks that are barely noticeable normally. Neil can imagine the harsh wind of them buffeting his resolve. He can’t back down now. Has to drive through. Outrun the storm.

They’d both been trying to ignore it. Why Neil had asked for this. Neil can’t any more. He hates the hollow feeling blooming from his chest as he lets Andrew fuck him to fill him instead of addressing the gaping maw in his chest. Neil knows. Knows Andrew’s trauma is an impenetrable wall. Insurmountable. Knows he has no right. Neil wonders exactly when he’d started carrying that burden with Andrew. If Andrew knows he does. How angry that would make him if he’s just finding out now. 

Andrew’s eyes finally break back up to Neil’s. His mouth is a hard line. 

“I didn’t ask you to,” Andrew says like all Neil’s thoughts had been a conversation between them. 

“I can’t help it. I-” 

Neil doesn’t know why he can’t say it. Three words that are so simple for other people but Andrew and Neil had never shared them. Not Andrew, and not Neil out loud at least. He wipes away his tears, embarrassed. They’d stopped being a release a while ago. He just can’t disguise it as pleasure anymore.

Andrew helps, wordless, thumbs scraping away salt water. Leans back a little so Neil can balance on his lap again without falling, but doesn’t pull out. 

“‘M sorry,” Neil mumbles, ashamed. “It’s nothing.”

Andrew’s eyes flick to Neil’s mouth, then back up. “This isn’t nothing.”

It’s a loaded statement. Like a shotgun to the heart. Like shrapnel piercing Neil’s chest, cutting through him. Feels like blood spraying and guts shredding and heart failure. Neil wheezes, lungs collapsed, clogging up with shattered bits of his ribs and mashed viscera. 

“Wha— what?”

Instead of answering, Andrew slides his hand back up into Neil’s hair, fingers curling around the buzzed undercut at the back of his neck. Pulls him down onto his chest. The rise and fall of his breath is a steady, grounding force, and Neil wonders if Andrew knows how much he needs that right now. “Yes or no?” he asks, nosing along Neil’s jaw.

Without thought, Neil nods. He never tells Andrew no. Doesn’t know how. Doesn’t ever want to. 

“‘M gonna move now,” Andrew murmurs, taking more care than usual. 

He pushes inside Neil deep and languid, a soft growl rumbling in his chest, bubbling up out into Neil’s throat. Neil slumps, head hitting Andrew’s shoulder. It feels different now. He can’t explain it.

Andrew pulls him up by his hair. “Look at me,” he commands, cupping Neil’s face. 

Oh no. Neil’s heart hasn’t pieced itself back together yet. He can’t handle this. Can he blush like this? Surely he’s already too flushed from arousal for Andrew to see how this affects him. 

Andrew sets a steady, gentle pace, but his hips stutter occasionally. He’s still close. And like this, with more care and focus, he hits directly into Neil’s prostate, making Neil moan and quake. Before long, he’s riding down into Andrew’s thrusts. He hasn’t forgotten how they’d gotten here, or what Andrew had told him, but he can handle it if they’re like this. It’s an intimate kind of comfort, Andrew’s steady grip on Neil’s neck, holding him down like he used to while Neil would have panic attacks when they were teens. 

“Are you close?” Andrew asks, but kisses Neil before he can answer. He nods through the kiss, sensitive to how his cock slides between the hot confines of their guts. Andrew’s tongue drags along Neil’s lip. “Come for me, pretty thing.” 

Neil knows he could jack himself off to finish, but. But. He lets his hips fall a little heavier, lets Andrew’s heavy cock hit him a little deeper, slide across his sweet spot just perfectly and hums at how good it feels. 

He’d thought what felt like ages ago that the waves of his orgasm would crash over him like a tsunami, a heavy wall of ocean water that would send him tumbling, drowning somewhere deep where Andrew wouldn’t be able to find him for hours. It had happened before. Neil deep in some space where Andrew’s voice sounded like it was coming through twenty feet of water.

Instead, it swells like a flooded levy, murky water pooling around his ankles first, then his knees, up into his waist and he weeps, dribbling out onto Andrew’s stomach pathetically while his dick bounces on its own accord, oddly active for how weakly his jizz leaks out in thick globs, pooling in Andrew’s navel and the creases of his abdomen. He shivers through it, whole body set to tingling, flooding his joints with spasms. 

Andrew hisses beneath him somewhere. “Tight,” he barely grits out before throwing his head back, like Neil’s loss of control is contagious. He grunts fiercely, curling into Neil, pulling him down by the hips hard so his cock buries in deep. It’s hot, his cock contracting to empty his load, his cum pumping in deep.

It takes a good while for Andrew to suck in a ragged breath. Neil hadn’t realized he’d been holding it until then, until his chest doubles its usual rise and fall, trying to bring enough oxygen back into his system. Once he’s breathing again, Andrew scoops Neil up, gently easing his waning cock out and depositing him onto the neighboring cushion. He achingly pushes to his feet with a hand cupped under his belly to keep Neil’s cum from dripping to the floor and disappears into the bathroom.

There’s no way Neil could stand to follow him. His legs are dead weight beneath him, and he’s afraid moving will leak everything Andrew has left in him out. The best he can do is pull his knees to his chest and try to put himself back together again. Tries not to be scared of the Andrew that will come out of the bathroom. He places a hand over his belly, brow meeting his knee. Thinks about the pieces of Andrew inside of him, how much he has been filled with over the years. He’s queasy from crying for so long, from Andrew’s relentlessness, from Andrew unfairly changing the rules on him.

Neil jumps when Andrew comes out of the bathroom with a damp rag in hand and a roll of paper towels under his arm. An unlit cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. He looks. Serene. 

Oh. 

Neil wonders why even just looking at Andrew makes his chest hurt so much. He’s hungry to hear Andrew say strange things again, but couldn’t dare ask. Bitterly, he wishes Andrew never had, so he wouldn’t know, wouldn’t be able to crave it now as he does. 

Andrew kneels down in front of Neil, pushes his legs out of the way so he can set to wiping the sweat off Neil’s body. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t so much as look up at Neil. Just works the cigarette around with his mouth absently and rubs Neil’s skin raw with a wet rag, leaving streaks of goose-bumped flesh until Neil is shivering. 

Neil has to detach from his body when Andrew forces him over onto his knees to clean him out, hands bracing the back of the couch for balance. It would be too humiliating if he didn’t go somewhere else where Andrew’s gentle but deliberate hands can't reach him. He makes a pillow with his arms and rests his chin there, deep and lost somewhere far away from Andrew’s fingers in his ass, where Andrew’s voice plays like a scratched record. 

“ _This isn’t nothing._ ” 

Neil hides his face in his arms, sucks on his lower lip.

“ _This isn’t nothing._ ”

He must have been arguing Neil’s thinly veiled attempt to tell Andrew not to worry about him. That he was fine. Just ignore the tears, the depressing aura he emitted. It’s nothing, just pretend it’s not happening. Andrew just meant that he couldn’t do that, that caring for Neil is what he does. Except.

Except Andrew is always so deliberate with his words. As much as Neil wants to pretend Andrew hadn’t meant anything by it, Neil knows Andrew would never forget the importance of that word for them. He knew exactly what he was saying. 

But Neil wonders if Andrew knew what that word would do to him.

Nearly nine years Neil had been following Andrew. Nine years of pushing him to be his best, of supporting him, of watching Andrew climb even when he sometimes didn’t want to, wanted to throw his whole career away, but stuck with it because of the artistic outlet that it was for him. Andrew never once had described them as anything other than nothing. Neil dug through his memory, for anything in their constant give and take, their trade of secrets and deals and kisses. It’s not that he didn’t think Andrew loved him. Just that expressing it was so outside his vocabulary if you took away putting pen to paper and bars to beat. Outside of metaphor and word play. Andrew’s peculiar way of saying something lyrical and it meaning something dark and secret for only Neil. 

Neil hisses at a twinge of pain. He’d chewed his thumbnail to the bed without noticing. Coming to, Andrew is in the kitchen, preparing the coffee pot with a pair of dingy grey sweats hung low on his waist, the pant legs rolled up so he doesn’t step on them. 

How long had Neil been zoned out? 

Andrew glances over his shoulder, his cigarette lit now and half burned down. 

Long enough. 

“You back?” Andrew asks, starting the pot. Neil sits back on his haunches, staring over the back of the couch at Andrew, who leans on the counter and crosses his arms. The gentle trickle of hot water pour is the only sound between them, and the rich smell of coffee begins to seep into the air. 

There are a shirt and a pair of briefs Andrew had left for Neil sitting beside him and he takes a moment to pull the shirt over his head. His knees are killing him, but he can’t move yet.

“I—” Neil’s mouth snaps closed. Honestly, he’d started to speak without knowing what he wants to say. Maybe more accurately, he doesn’t know what he wants to hear from Andrew. Is afraid of what he might hear. 

Andrew blows out a cloud of smoke and looks toward the city outside. It’s dark now. His eyes are hard, detached. He brings his hand up to his cigarette. The end burns neon orange as he drags off it, then pulls away, tasting the smoke on his tongue before exhaling again. Once he’s satisfied, he opens his mouth to speak.

“I won’t say it again,” Andrew says deliberately. Neil nods, trying not to show his disappointment. He knows. He knows that. Andrew doesn’t need to tell him. It hurts worse when he says out loud what they both know. Still, Neil is grateful that he won’t have to wonder.

Andrew crosses the room to stand before Neil. Grabs his face so he looks up, so their eyes meet. Whatever he finds there seems to trouble him, but he doesn’t comment on it. Neil’s lips pull in a long narrow line before Andrew announces, “I hate you.”

He leans down to kiss Neil fiercely, bumps their foreheads together briefly before he returns to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of fresh brew and begins shoveling spoonfuls of sugar into it. Neil hadn’t noticed it until now but Andrew reaches across the island and squeezes the tape recorder there until it gives a sharp click of finality. 

Neil deflates, slumping back into the couch.


End file.
